


Strangers

by nightcourthighlordrhysand



Series: Moriel [2]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-10-27 23:31:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10819044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightcourthighlordrhysand/pseuds/nightcourthighlordrhysand
Summary: Mor and Azriel apartment buddies





	Strangers

**Author's Note:**

> bask in my AUs where no one is hurt

**~First~**

Mor slumps into the blessedly cool lobby of her apartment building, sweating more than any person should be allowed to and strides toward the rows of mailboxes hung along the far wall. 

Swiping at her heat flushed forehead, she filters through the junk mail and a few alumni letters for someone named Azriel - one of these days she was going to lay in wait for that postman and enlighten him on a little thing called addresses and the _names that correspond to them_.

Moving to slap the envelopes on top of the mailboxes as usual, Mor pauses, eyeing the address - _next door_ \- and sighs.  If _her_ mail were constantly getting mixed up she’d hate to have to go to the front desk every time. 

The elevator arrives soon enough and Mor rides up to her cozy sixth floor apartment, stopping one door short of her own and bending to stick her neighbor’s mail beneath the door. 

Nearly toppling over as the wooden door is pulled open rather quickly, Mor stumbles but remains on her feet, glancing up to find a chiseled and emotionless face gazing at her, completely unreadable aside from the slight twitch at his jaw.

“Don’t laugh at a do-gooder neighbor.”

The corner of his lips tick up at that, “I don’t jump to conclusions.  For all I know you stole my mail and had second thoughts.”

Mor pushes up from her crouch with agility, straightening her loose fitting tank as she smirked, “Right.  Because _that’s_ the most plausible explanation.”

Both pause, too busy drinking in the other to notice the twin hungry looks that flash through each other’s eyes.

Recovering herself first, Mor fiddles with the envelopes in her hand before extending them across the gap between them, “Well- I guess I’ll just be off then.”

For a second, her breath caught when his shoulders seemed to slump in disappointment, but it was gone before she could be sure, and he accepted the letters, firm expression back in place.

Waving a quick farewell, Mor turned toward her own door, when Azriel spoke softly, “I don’t know your name, and I assume you know mine.”

She smiled, “Seems unfair, eh?”

He nodded, eyes crinkling.

Mor bit her lip for a moment, unlocking her door expertly, before looking back at him, “Too bad life’s unfair, Az.”

And with a wink she disappeared behind the door, and Azriel fell against the hallway wall with a thud, finally allowing the smile he’d been fighting to spread across his face.  _Well I’m screwed._

**~Second~**

After that, things change, but not that much.  Instead of limiting their interactions to perfunctory nods, they actually exchange bland small talk in the elevator, lobby, and on those occasions where they meet up in the hallway.

It’s a state of affairs neither knows how to change, Mor hesitating largely because she thinks she left the ball in _his_ court and inaction means he’s not really interested.  And Azriel simply finds himself locked in this strange orbit around her, basking in the glow of her easy smiles and shining eyes, fighting to tamp down the hope that she could possibly want more.

It’s only a few weeks later when the universe intervenes in the form of an unexpected heat wave and faulty central air system in the building.  Azriel slumps into his apartment, immediately stripping down to his boxers and filling an oversized tumbler with water and freshly made cubes from the ice trays in his freezer.

Flicking on the strategically placed free standing fans that litter the free space of his apartment, he works the large back window open with a sigh, sweat gathering along the planes of his torso, the small of his back, and basically any part of his body - even those he wasn’t aware had sweat glands.  _Guess that’s my shit silver lining_.

With a self-deprecating smirk to his empty apartment, Azriel climbs onto the fire escape and slumps against the rough brick wall, a faint breeze from the too distant coastline lifting his sweat damp locks.

“Howdy neighbor.”

Startled, he nearly tosses his drink over the side of the fire escape before he turns toward Mor, who is somehow _more_ enticing with haphazardly styled hair pulled atop her head for function rather than form, and clad in a loose-fitting floral sundress, straps nearly slipping from her sun kissed shoulders.

“Cowgirl eh?” Azriel manages to rumble out after a moment, hoping she didn’t notice how his gaze had lingered. If her knowing smirk is anything to go by, his wish is far from granted, but the mischievous glint in her eye almost makes it okay.

“It seemed like a good idea at the time. I blame dehydration and impending heat stroke,” she laughs out, fumbling in a bowl filled with melty ice, randomly selecting a cube to run down her exposed neck as she tilts her blonde head back, sliding down in her rickety lawn chair.

Exercising considerable self-control, he keeps his hazel eyes from following the rivulets that cascade down the column of her neck and beneath the deep v of her dress.

Blowing out a long breath, Azriel casts around for a topic of conversation to distract himself from the golden tendrils teasing her collarbone, eventually settling on one of the go to ice breakers. “This weather is brutal, yeah?”

Mor groans, shaking the watery remains of her ice cube from her already warm hand, “I have never felt more gross in my life. And I once babysat nauseated triplets.”

“Well you _look_ beautiful –” Azriel broke off, face flushing with more than the oppressive heat.

Luckily – or unluckily depending on when you asked him – Mor let the comment go with a quiet smile, moving the conversation forward into discussing their favorite television shows and the upcoming final installment of the current blockbuster sci-fi trilogy. They burn the remaining hours of baking sunlight in comfortable conversation, only retreating into their stiflingly hot apartments when the mosquitos emerge for their nightly rounds.

**~Third~**

She hadn’t _intended_ to get drunk – although tipsy was more accurate – and she would fight anyone who said otherwise. Come to think of it, Mor thinks she almost _did_ fight someone for saying so. Luckily Amren didn’t drink and Feyre had a good head on her shoulders so they knew and dealt with their friend’s tendency to become a little more, _impatient_ with dicks who liked to comment on her levels of drunkenness and hotness in some ill advised attempt at picking her up.

And so both women had corralled her into a stale smelling cab and ensured she was locked inside her apartment to wait out the impending hangover. It’s important to note they weren’t abandoning her in a compromised state – although Mor was _slightly_ more prone to brawling, she was known for her remarkably clear head in the face of various levels of intoxication. Plus Feyre baby-proofed the knife drawer, and not just from paranoia. But that’s a story for another time.

Another thing Mor noticed about her tipsy self – alright perhaps she _was_ drunk – was that she tended to get claustrophobic, which is what leads to her bursting onto the fire escape dramatically clad in the tight tank top she’d worn to the bar and the oversized pajama pants she’d clumsily wrestled over her legs. 

The fall air chills her exposed skin, bringing up goose bumps and sending shivers up her spine. With a sigh, she lets her head drop back against the exposed brick of her building, golden hair catching on the rough surface and sending pin pricks to her scalp.

“Fancy meeting you here,” a calm voice calls out, the heady, smokey scent of some kind of flavored tobacco drifting in the breeze.

Mor lets her head droop listlessly toward her unexpected companion, eyeing him with a wry smile, “ _Pipe_ smoker. How distinguished.” 

“I wouldn’t call myself a smoker, more like occasional user,” Azriel volleys, warm voice rumbling across the small space that separates them. “Makes me too sluggish to make it a regular thing. Aside from the health concerns.” 

“Glad you’re aware. I’ll save the lecture,” Mor manages to get out, only slurring slightly. _Perhaps more than a little drunk…_

Her eyes drift close but she feels his gaze heavy on her, not judging, just weighing and considering. She nearly slips into a light sleep when he speaks again, “Tobacco isn’t the only vice with potential health risks.”

She cracks one eyeliner smudged lid open, “I s’pose you’re referencing my apparent intoxication.”

He nods. “Although I _am_ impressed at the vocabulary you manage to maintain in your drunken state.”

“I almost slugged the last person who called me drunk.”

Azriel quirks a brow, apparently not intimidated. She’d be offended, but honestly the longer she sits, the more her initial adrenaline rush fades and her limbs feel increasingly noodle like. “I normally don’t go much past buzzed if it’s the hour for confessing vices." 

Another puff of smoke floats past as Azriel hums thoughtfully, apparently allowing her to decide whether to continue her explanation. She toys with the pros and cons, part of her wondering _why_ she’s even considering telling her neighbor about things she barely tells her closest friends. Blowing out a steadying breath, she figures she might as well spill her guts, and if regret tags along with her inevitable hang over she’ll chalk the evening up to loosened inhibitions and live with the consequences.

“I don’t particularly get along with my family. Actually that’s an understatement. I haven’t even spoken to them in four years." 

Silence answers, but it’s not cold. It’s just _waiting,_ ready for her to fill it. So she does.

“It’s by my choice. So much that I nearly changed my name entirely, but my cousin – he’s far enough removed and firmly on my side – promised I’d be ok. Said I’d surrendered enough to the bastards. So I kept it.”

“I’m glad,” Azriel answers, voice low, “You kept it that is. Not that it’s my business, but I like your name. It’s strong.”

She glances toward him, notes his blushing cheeks despite the placid expression on his features and smiles, a real one. “Thanks. I’ve always liked it.”

He nods, running a scarred hand through his inky locks. It’s scarred strangely, not slices or little blips but winding silvery shapes that lick across the skin like – like _flames_. Mor blinks a few times, deciding a more sober version of herself should delve into that line of questioning.

“But my family – the one’s I’ve managed to shake for almost half a decade? They somehow managed to get my number. Called this afternoon.”

She pauses, picking at her chipping rust colored nail polish, ignoring the tears that well in her eyes as she speaks again with a choked laugh, “I’ll spare you the details, but let’s say it wasn’t a loving reunion.”

His dark eyes sweep over her again, gaze hard and fiery, “Do you need to get away? I’ve got-”

Mor’s heart clenches, affection rippling through her chest at his immediate instinct to protect. And not in an overbearing or controlling way – just a simple desire to _help_.

Before he can detail just what form that assistance would take, she cuts him off, “I’ve already got my cousin on it. He’s quite good at – lets say he’s rather intimidating. Has some old dirt on my father that tends to shut the old coot up and keep him away from me.”

Azriel smirks at that, eyes glinting with mischief. “Your cousin sounds like quite the character.”

Huffing out a laugh she agrees, before once again giving into her drunken instincts and grabbing the proverbial bull by the horns, “Could I- would you-,” she bites her lip, steeling her resolve, “Will you hold me?”

Without a word he’s by her side in an instant, tugging her into his embrace, pipe put out and abandoned on the windowsill.

As she snuggles closer, fingers clinging to his cozy cotton t-shirt, Mor murmurs a quiet thank you, eyes drifting shut again as Azriel’s strong hands draw her close, smooth lips brushing across her hairline.

**~Fourth~**

With a groan, Azriel lets his forehead drop against the waxy wood door, blindly checking his pockets one last time for the set of keys he knows aren’t there. He’d left them at Cassian’s apartment across the city – the apartment that was now empty for the week and locked up like a tomb.

Before this, his day hadn’t been going too badly, he’d woken fairly cheerful, eaten a hearty breakfast, and headed over to catch up with his friend during one of their monthly ‘hang outs.’ The tradition had started once they graduated college and got jobs too far apart to justify remaining roommates. So despite both men’s reluctance to demonstrate affection outright, they’d stumbled into the practice, which ensured they would _at least_ have those afternoons together.

Those well meaning intentions don’t save him from the after hours billing he’s about to be saddled with from the locksmith. Pushing out another defeated sigh, Azriel digs his phone out of his jacket pocket and begins his search for someone to let him in until he could get a spare key. 

“Really attached to that door, eh?” a familiar voice remarks dryly from nearby. 

Azriel straightens, taking in Mor’s form – clad in well a well-tailored skirt-suit, the grey hem just brushing her knees. “I’ve locked myself out. Trying to find a lock smith.”

Mor eyed him for a moment, shifting her shopping bags restlessly before she spoke, “You could always come over – for dinner that is. I’ve got plenty.”

As she gestures to the bags in her hands, Azriel makes up his mind – not that you’d have to twist his arm to convince him to spend an evening with his fantastically gorgeous – _anyway_. He takes one of the brown sacks into the crook of his arm so she can slip her key into the hole and they enter the dark apartment, her slim hand flicking the light switch as she leads him into the mirror image of his own apartment.

After depositing their parcels on her kitchen counter, Mor takes his coat, along with her own, and hangs them over the coatrack in her entryway. “I was planning on a big salad with one of those rotisserie chickens?” She paused, “You eat meat, right?”

Pulling various fresh vegetables from the nearest bag, Azriel nods, “ _Yes_. That chicken smells delicious.”

“I got some mashed potatoes as a side,” Mor supplies, pulling the salad bowl from its perch atop her refrigerator to place it on the empty counter space.

Before long, they’re chatting comfortably, this time _without_ alcohol to remove inhibitions. At first, Mor had been wary of her neighbor after her drunken debacle, but they’d quickly fallen back into their usual routine, although something always seemed to simmer beneath the surface. Still, the tension wasn’t uncomfortable, just _there_ – _waiting_.

Shaking her head, Mor moves to change into her sweats while Azriel continues chopping vegetables as she’d directed him playfully.

They spend the rest of the evening sharing the salad, forgoing plates and instead spearing bites directly from the bowl and working their way through the lemon and thyme rotisserie chicken until Azriel remembers _why_ he’d been lucky enough to spend the evening with his highly attractive neighbor. “I forgot to call the lock smith." 

Mor crunches down on a stray carrot, considering him for a moment before her eyes dart to the oven clock – already past ten. “It’s already so late; I have an air bed.”

Azriel makes to argue but she brushes it off, “It’s no trouble. You can call the office for a spare in the morning.”

The duo works in tandem, spreading spare sheets over the plastic mattress. Mor lets Azriel use the bathroom first, providing toothpaste but no brush – a missing tool he quickly overcomes with the use of his pointer finger.

Once the door _snicks_ shut behind Mor, Azriel quickly strips down to his underthings, slipping beneath the sheet as he plugs his phone in to charge.

All lights are shut save the lamp on her bedside table when Mor exits the bathroom in a cloud of steam, skin fresh and pink as she tiptoes around in search of pajamas. Her towel slips and she shoots a nervous glance toward her guest, who apparently drifted away on Morpheus’ wings during her nightly rituals, before proceeding to dress, shut the last of the lights, and slide beneath her own covers, eyelids heavy but mind glittering with thoughts of a certain tall dark and handsome not so stranger from next door.

**~Fifth~**

The following morning, Azriel wakes staring at the eggshell ceiling, momentarily confused until he hears the distinct rubbery sound of the air mattress shifting beneath him. Slipping one hand from beneath the covers, he swipes across the sleeping screen of his phone for the time – not quite ten – before feeling around for the pile of clothes he’d carefully folded the previous evening.

Soon enough, he’s mostly clothed, leaving his sweater and jacket for later when he braves the chilled weather.

Quietly, he steps into the hall, careful to keep the door propped open as he carries on a muted conversation where he makes plans to retrieve the spare set of keys from his buddy Jim in the office who promises he won’t have to pay the fee – provided Azriel surrenders his Sunday evening to babysit a squalling set of toddler triplets.

Ending the call with laughing requests to give Martha and the girls his love, Azriel reenters the apartment, pressing the door closed almost silently.

“I’d’ve thought you skipped out on me for the walk of shame if your shoes weren’t still here,” an amused voice drawls from the kitchen as the smell of percolating coffee wafts through the late morning air.

He moves to prop his hip against the counter, laughing as she pulls two mugs from the cabinets, as well as milk and sugar 

As he pours the sweet granules into the black drink, Mor speaks again, “It would be quite a shame though.”

Azriel raises his brows, losing the thread of the conversation at the sight of her bared legs that seem _silkier_ than he remembered. With a gruff grunt that he hopes indicates he requires more information Azriel sips his coffee.

Smirking, Mor places her mug on the counter and pulls his away to set it next to hers. “I _mean_ it would be an awful disgrace if you took the proverbial walk of shame without doing anything _shameful_.”

Before he can answer, she tugs his face toward hers by the front of his t-shirt, noses brushing. Still, she lets the moment sit, deep brown eyes asking, _waiting_ to see what he wants.

With a sigh that’s almost like a groan, Azriel’s arms slide around her waist powerfully, tugging her close until there’s no space between them, “I’d hate to be a disgrace.”

And her laugh is quickly muffled as his lips descend on hers, mouths dancing together as her fingers knit through his inky hair. As Mor’s hands stroke over his defined chest, fingers scrabbling for the hem of his shirt, she smiles mischievously, “Maybe not disgrace – but what about being a little _scandalous_.”


End file.
